


The Unquiet Grave

by Palebluedot



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domesticity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, angst that manifests itself as bittersweetness, discussions of canonical impermanent character "death", of a sort, post-reunion, the fandom hivemind loveshack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13176006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Palebluedot/pseuds/Palebluedot
Summary: It nags at him, that he can't quite know whether he really did wake to find James crying, just like he can't tell if the fleeting shadows of sadness  he sometimes sees crossing James's face from the corner of his eye are merely tricks of his imagination or the light, or if the red eyes he once spotted in the kitchen were the work of an onion or some sharper tool.





	The Unquiet Grave

Half-asleep in the warm, snug dark, Thomas isn't entirely sure that the quiet, hitched whimpering beside him is what roused him, but he is certain that it's James, and that something is wrong. His brow furrowed with sleep and worry, he reaches up and cups James's face. It's wet, in places. “Nightmare again?” Thomas mumbles, feeling he hardly needs to ask. Nothing else has disturbed James's sleep so, these months since that first tearful, day-long embrace.

Beneath Thomas's fingers, James's cheek shifts. A small smile, Thomas thinks. “I'm fine, love,” he whispers. “You go back to sleep.”

James pats the back of Thomas's hand, and Thomas lets it fall. He nods and closes his eyes, but mostly only pretends to sleep until he feels James's breath slow and steady under his arm. In the morning, he wakes with his head still tucked on James's shoulder, and hardly remembers any of it at all.

A few days later, Thomas wishes he'd woken more fully. It nags at him, that he can't quite know whether he really did wake to find James crying, just like he can't tell if the fleeting shadows of sadness he sometimes sees crossing James's face from the corner of his eye are merely tricks of his imagination or the light, or if the red eyes he once spotted in the kitchen were the work of an onion or some sharper tool. Gentle inquiries as to whether all is well are routinely met with a warm smile, an _of course_ , sometimes a kiss that closes the discussion. Thomas can find no real reason to disbelieve any of these things.

Still, it nags at him, and it continues to nag at him until one sun-soaked Sunday afternoon.

From the kitchen, Thomas sees that James's head has lolled to the side, half into the golden patch of light spilling from the window near his chair. He dries his hands with a cloth, then sets it down to trade it for the blanket draped over the back of the sofa, which he delicately lays across James's lap. His general puttering resumes, now at a dampened volume. Between washed dishes and chopped vegetables, he glances into their sitting room to find James still snoozing peacefully, until, just after he's dealt with the last potato of the pile, quite by chance, he catches sight of James blinking awake.

Thomas watches fondly as James rubs his eyes and stretches out his neck, and allows himself to feel rather pleased with himself when James smiles upon rubbing his thumb over the corner of the blanket that was not there when he fell asleep. Then that look of bleary, contented surprise crystallizes into something more fragile, and yes, that _is_ a tear James wipes hastily away, Thomas sees it plain, and knows he wasn't supposed to.

He leaves his knife on the cutting board and walks to James. The smile James shows him kindles in him a touch more irritation at being deceived than warmth for being loved, but when he kneels down at James's feet and rests his chin on the arms he crosses over James's knees, his movements are gentle.

“You're crying,” he says simply, giving James no time to speak on any different subject.

There is something of the guilty schoolboy in the twist of James's mouth. “Not anymore,” he says a bit too lightly. “I assure you, I'm quite all right now.”

“You've _been_ crying,” Thomas amends. “Will you tell me what's wrong?”

James looks briefly like he might wave Thomas off again, or perhaps become cross, then he nods with lips pulled inwards and stares down at his lap. Slowly, he pulls his hand from under the blanket and softly squeezes Thomas's elbow. He pauses, and nods again, and opens his mouth. “I grew used to it, you see,” he begins in a quiet, careful voice. “I thought of you, _missed_ you, every day, but over time I grew used to your absence, and to my grief.” The deep, grounding breath he takes shudders a bit, but he meets Thomas's eye steadily. “Thomas, you must understand — all those years ago, I dug a grave for you. A small, hidden thing, deep in my chest. I kept it well-tended, and it became part of the landscape, just another piece of me. And then you returned to me, split open the earth and walked back into my arms, and it was — it _is_...” He strokes Thomas's cheek with a rough palm. James's watery smile employs each part of his face, and it is humbling indeed to be the object of such breathless, wordless joy. Thomas leans into James's hand, and James's fingers curl against the soft skin behind Thomas's ear.

“But it is an adjustment, yet,” James continues on a sigh, “to have torn from me something I lived alongside every day for more than a decade. I'm not grieving for my grief, make no mistake,” he says in an earnest rush. “And I never lied to you, I truly am perfectly well. The sight of that grave lying empty sometimes makes me remember digging it, is all.”

It is as though love has laid claim to all the air in Thomas's lungs. Though he could burst with the want for _something_ to say, he finds he cannot speak. Instead, he hooks his arms around the backs of James's calves and hugs his legs to his chest as best he can. The blanket is soft on his face when he lets his head fall forward between James's knees.

To say that Thomas has felt the same wave stir within his own breast would be untruthful. There is nothing that is not sad about the years they lost, but that sadness moves through him as a bitter tinge of regret, not an upwelling of grief. It was his own hubris that carved the mouth of their path to hell after all, and he must live with that each day they spend together, just as he did each day they spent apart. But he does remember once weeping at the sight of dusty ground for no reason other than that it was not damp, sick-slick stone, and it was not entirely out of gratitude. It is not such a stretch to imagine that the sight of any given thing in their little house might hold similar power over James.

“I understand,” he says at last, blanket-muffled. At the touch of James's fingertips on his scalp, he raises his head. “I understand, and I'll say no more about it unless you ever wish me to — though I do hate to see you upset, whatever the cause.”

“They're tears of joy, mostly,” James assures him, absently bending and unbending the tip of a lock of Thomas's hair between his thumb and forefinger. “In a roundabout way. It'd be rather silly for them to be of any other sort, when each day I pass with you is happier than the last.”

“Well, I married a silly man,” Thomas counters mildly. “Though tears are no example of that silliness. That is contained largely to his penchant for Milton, and his insistence on sleeping without any socks.”

“It's more comfortable to sleep that way and you know it,” says James, tapping Thomas's nose on the penultimate word. Thomas grins a lopsided grin, James returns it and whispers, “Thank you.” Thomas is content not to ask what for. He sits with his cheek pillowed on James's warm hand and they talk of small things, the debatable merits of Milton and the mending of socks, until his knees insist that he rise. When he stands, he braces his hands on the arms of James's chair so that he might lean forward to kiss his forehead. James follows him shortly into the kitchen, and they stand shoulder to shoulder chopping the onions for that night's soup.

**Author's Note:**

> I am DELIGHTED to report that thanks to a giveaway post and the boundless talent of [samhound](https://samhound.tumblr.com), there's [art](https://brightbluedot.tumblr.com/post/169118978009/samhound-flintham-scribble-for-brightbluedot-d) for this fic!! <33
> 
> Title borrowed from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQgiebndmbc), which has no strong connection to my thought process for this fic, except that the line that began it all was "I dug a grave for you", and this was the first phrase that came to mind. 
> 
> I have no real knowledge of and therefore nothing against Milton, and am not sure what he ever did to offend Thomas. (I am, however, of the strong and apparently not universal opinion that socks must never be worn to bed under any circumstances.)
> 
> Comments are love! <3


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